


Figuring Things Out

by Ealasaid



Series: A City In Shadows [14]
Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, M/M, Mobsterswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s really just a thing you find entertaining, getting a rise out of Scout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figuring Things Out

You’d dragged him out of that club and through the front door and into one of your apartments, his protests a constant snarling growl like a river made out of angry dogs. You ignored him and cracked jokes that he laughed woodenly at until you startled him with a real good one—the laugh that followed was entirely involuntary, and it makes him angrier because he doesn’t like it when you trick him into laughing like that. You love it when he gets like that, because then he forgets to watch his tongue and argues back at you like he actually has a chance to stand up to you.

It’s really just a thing you find entertaining, getting a rise out of Scout. You like knowing you can piss him off by making an offhand remark about the Meddlesome Company, insulting his piano playing, questioning his capabilities with a blade. Those aren’t too hard to do— anybody can do ‘em without even knowing the kid that well. But you like knowing you can make him do other things, like laugh when he doesn’t want to at some particularly witty one-liner or get ridiculously excited like that one time you tossed him a tiny Aberdeen terrier puppy and he nearly choked he was spluttering so much. Then he gets angry again, but it’s a better kind of angry because you’re the only one who’s interested to make him angry enough in that particular way.

You slam him up against the wall when you manage to fumble your way inside and pin him there casually with one arm. He’s a lot faster than you, you confess freely, but once you’ve got him down you can set the superior strength of your significantly larger frame against Scout’s wiry shortness.

You kiss him lightly to contrast with the violence of meeting the wall, and trail gently down his neck while your free hand takes time to unbutton the white dress shirt he’s got on under his black suit jacket. He’s entirely unimpressed and lets you know with a variety of inventive curses and threats that you cheerfully ignore as you leave his suit and shirt to hang open while you trace your way over the dozens and dozens of scars left by centuries of a fierce will to survive.

While your attention is diverted by going over every single one, Scout manages to wriggle his non-robotic arm out of your grasp by pulling it out of his jacket’s sleeves. He promptly shoves forward, knocking you away and off of him, but he follows it up with some sort of tackle that’s got you on your back with him sprawling on top of you. He snarls things you can’t even understand as you mash together in a kiss, his fingers impatiently ripping your shirt open regardless of the buttons that go flying and you snicker as hurriedly fumbles at your belt, which he manages to get off before you roll over and imprison him against the floor.

He doesn’t like that, doesn’t like knocking you away only to have your hands around his throat in mere moments—but it’s the way things have been since he joined the Scoundrels and got a measure of protection from you in your interest of keeping your team a cohesive whole. He’s a lot more confident now in fighting back—meaning it doesn’t take him as long to do it as it did when he was with the Company—but, you think smugly, he still can’t get the upper hand yet.

You straddle just below his hips and he half sits up to push you off, but you’ve got his arms trapped behind him as you pull his jacket and his shirt half off. You lean in for a real doozy of a kiss, and flavor it with enough shadow to make him stiffen before bonelessly arching back down to the floor. You leave his arms trapped like that and let your hands wander down to his hips, where you trace him lightly, making him whine. You take your time undoing his belt and pulling it off while he tries to push back into your hands and works his arms free.

When he does, it’s his turn to pull off someone else’s jacket, and then he’s raking his fingers down your skin hard enough to draw drippy shadowy blood that slicks up your skin. He takes the time to deliberately smear some through your hair, something you don’t particularly favor and he knows it. You resist the impulse to move roughly in response. You bite his collarbone hard and kept your hands gentle as he starts to wriggle impatiently under you.

His hands dart down and tug at your pants—you swat them away, wondering how far you’ll go before he gets aggressive enough to put up a decent fight. “Not so fast, scout,” you murmur, making your way down his chest with your mouth. “We’re just barely getting started.”

“Fuck you,” he says, edgily, and gets enough leverage to roll you to the bottom again. Apparently he was done with the teasing, because he compensates his lighter frame by roping your arms to the floor with his shadows. He’s got your pants off in record time and your half-hearted protest gets superseded by a heavy groan as his mouth closes around you.

It’s your turn to shift uncomfortably as he finagles some skillful wordplay that leaves you hissing behind your teeth, busily working at the shadows holding your hands back. Now’s the time when you’re losing interest in going slow and all you want to do is get him pinned under you, but the shadows are slowing you down a bit. It takes you another five minutes of suddenly agonizing torture before you’ve loosened his power’s grip on you enough to dazedly pull him off you and roughly slam him into the floor.

He sneers at you as you take control again, your new goal in life to make him scream. When you’re in him a few minutes later and you meet that goal as he arches and claws at you, it changes to making him lose his voice.

There’s a measureless stretch of time that’s all desperate activity, moving in ways that are hard and fast and leave Scout writhing against his bonds and breathlessly threateningly pleading. You’re fiercely satisfied at this and it contributes to the tightening spiral building in your belly as you lean down and pull him into another toxic kiss. He whimpers urgently as you wrap your hand around him and shudders violently when you drag the shadows around it. The sounds tip you off the edge and you bite the junction of his neck and shoulder and suck hard as you shove in as far as you can and shake uncontrollably.

He’s smugger than you would have thought afterwards as you share a cigarette and a drink at the table in the kitchen, and you’re almost interested enough to think about it, but it’s at this point that your hands are starting to roam again and the lazy contentedness with which he has draped himself at his end of the table begs to be messed with.

You put it aside the question of that secret smile and turn to more pressing matters instead.


End file.
